


Treehouse

by thescienceofsherlolly



Series: 100 Ways Sherlolly Say 'I Love You' [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood Sweethearts, F/M, Fluff, Just Married, Kid Molly Hooper, Kid Sherlock, Sherlock and Molly are too cute, lost their virginity in there. what? you were thinking it too, or get a new one since it's quite possible they, that'll be a conversation..., the redecorate the treehouse for their kids, treehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescienceofsherlolly/pseuds/thescienceofsherlolly
Summary: #63 “Cross my heart and hope to die.”





	Treehouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangelock221b](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=strangelock221b).



Sherlock hugged his knees to his chest, peering through the tiny gap his hiding space had provided him with. Heavy footsteps waltzed past, unknowing of his position; he held his breath out of fear he’d be discovered. His heart pounded in his chest until the footsteps faded into the background and he was alone. He didn’t dare retreat from the safety of the cupboard, even if he was surrounded by deafening silence. Crouching in the tight space was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable and Sherlock was just thinking about shifting his stance when the door swung open.

“Found you!”

“Not fair,” Sherlock whined as he extracted himself from the empty cabinet in the parlour of his parent’s country home. He looked up into the smugly triumphant face of Molly Hooper, his best friend and worst nightmare rolled into one. He folded his arms, pouting for England, “you cheated.”

“How did I cheat?” She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear, “your Mummy said we could only play in a few rooms because of your brother’s meeting thing-”

“Stupid Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, still pouting. Molly nudged him.

“My turn.”

“I don’t wanna play anymore,” the young boy said with a sigh, taking Molly’s hand. He started to lead her out of the room, “we can do an experiment in my room. Stay away from the old people.”

Sherlock and Molly had been friends for almost three years now, having spent their time in pre-school virtually inseparable. It was on his mother’s advice that he invite her over to play that evening, only to be told Mycroft was hosting a spontaneous dinner party to brown-nose his prospective university professors. As a result, the six-year-olds were given strict instructions the evening was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. They’d reached the foot of the staircase when the door leading to the dining hall opened and Sherlock’s father hurried out, clutching a glass of whiskey.

“I swear if I have to listen to one more anecdote about yachts…” he spotted the children, then, giving them a tired smile. “Hi, Molly…are you having a nice time?”

Molly nodded shyly, “yes, s-sir.”

“Where are you two off to?”

“I’m going to show Molly my new microscope,” Sherlock explained excitedly, squeezing his friend’s hand, “it’s got this really cool-”

“Oh, sorry, son…” Mr Holmes interrupted, shifting awkwardly on his feet, “Mycroft’s guests have put their coats in your room for now.”

“But…what about the coat cupboard?” The young boy asked, confused; he never once let go of Molly’s hand. His father rolled his eyes, waving his free hand about.

“Something about damp. I don’t know…old fuddy duddies the lot of them,” he was beginning to grow tired of sucking up to his eldest son’s tutors. Especially when his youngest looked so upset.

“Well, what are we supposed to do?”

Mr. Holmes sighed, already backing up towards the door he’d emerged from, “just…go to the treehouse for now. I’ll bring you some food soon. I’d better get back.”

He was gone in an instant. Reluctantly, Sherlock and Molly trudged off to his old treehouse which now contained nothing but a few broken toys, old experiments and out of date books and equipment. Even the telescope his parents had installed for him was beginning to show its age. An old record player sat in the corner, virtually unused. Nevertheless, the children spread out on the blanket, staring up at the worn bee paintings on the ceiling. Molly had always liked his treehouse; it was a peaceful escape in such a busy household.

“Do you think we’ll get married one day?”

Molly glanced at her friend; his eyes were fixed firmly on the ceiling but she could tell he was nervous. She shrugged, “yeah, maybe. He has to like science, though. I might even invite you if you’re lucky.”

His cheeks darkened as he stared even more intently at the ceiling. “I mean to each other.”

“Oh,” Molly replied, thinking about his question. She didn’t know much about marrying people but her parents were very happy and they liked dancing and kissing in front of the telly which was yucky. Doing that with Sherlock Holmes didn’t sound nearly as yucky, “I dunno. I want to.”

“Me, too,” Sherlock said, relieved he hadn’t ruined his only friendship. Molly rolled over onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow.

“Promise?”

Sherlock looked at her, grinning, “cross my heart, hope to die.”

Molly took his outstretched hand and the two shook hands, a secret pact made and honoured. Hell, even if they were still friends when they grew up, both would consider that an achievement. They snuggled together as the sun went down, drifting off to sleep in their sanctuary. Mrs. Holmes would find them several hours later in the same position before contacting Mrs. Hooper, insisting they have her stay the night. Neither minded, each agreeing the deserved each other.

* * *

“Sherlock!” Mycroft marched out of his parent’s home, approaching the groom furiously; he still wore his wedding suit and looked utterly infuriated which only served to improve the mood of said groom, “would you please explain why all of your presents and guests coats in my old bedroom?”

“Needed the space,” Sherlock replied, swirling the remaining champagne around his glass; his tone dripped with smugness, “can’t have them in the cupboard. Moths and all…”

Mycroft sniffed, narrowing his eyes at his little brother; he vaguely recalled the harsh words his mother had said to him that morning, something about keeping one’s mouth shut and not ruining the happiest day of Sherlock’s life. Still, he shook his head.

“Instead of enacting your petty childhood revenge, perhaps you should focus your deductive expertise on finding your new bride. I haven’t seen her since the ceremony.”

“Leave it to me, Mycroft,” he answered, despite Mycroft having already left to return to the reception in the large dining hall. Sherlock drained his glass, his eyes fixed on his old treehouse, “I know just where to look.”

Molly lie on the floor of the treehouse, looking up at the bees she once stared at for hours; the design had all but faded, only the faintest of the paint remained. Old instruments and abandoned schoolwork were littered about the place now; she turned her head, glancing fondly at the far corner where she and her new husband had shared their first kiss, aged fourteen. The sounds of huffing and panting pulled her out of her daydream and she pushed herself up, cursing under her breath as her head collided with the low ceiling. Molly peered out of the window, biting her lip to keep from laughing as she watched Sherlock attempting to climb the old rope. After a few minutes, she pushed down the rope ladder.

“You could’ve just asked…”

Sherlock let go of the rope before he could embarrass himself further. He looked back at the house briefly, raising an eyebrow at his lovely wife, “Mrs. Holmes…it’s your wedding day. People might talk.”

Molly giggled, one thing that hadn’t changed in their nearly twenty years together, “let them.”

She disappeared inside and he scurried up the ladder in record time, causing Molly to giggle once more; another thing that constantly amused Molly was that her husband was a much taller man and was frequently knocking his head against the ceiling. Sherlock crawled through the space he once thought far too large for just himself. His wife seized his jacket and tugged him beside her on the blanket, leaning over him and planting an eager kiss to his lips; she still wore her wedding dress and, to Sherlock, she had never looked so beautiful.

“I remember having more space than this,” he commented, shifting onto his back, his legs dangling out of the entrance. Molly rested her head against his chest.

“We were a lot smaller back then.”

“You’ve always been small.”

Molly lifted her head in mock offence, “I am not small.”

“Very small,” he nodded, pressing her knuckles to his lips fondly, “like a mouse.”

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” Molly said, a playful tone to her voice; she fiddled with his tie, a sultry smirk creeping onto her face, “I can’t possibly begin married life with you without letting that comment go without punishment,” Sherlock could only nod, swallowing audibly – damn her and her power over him. God, he loved her. Molly’s grin was positively sinful as he twisted his top button free, “you’re going to have to shag me to make up for it.”

“I-I think I can do that,” he said stupidly. His wife propped herself onto her elbow, staring down at him in utter adoration and respect.

“Promise?”

Her husband looked across at her, returning her look of devotion. He, too, rolled onto his side and rested on his elbow, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Molly’s ear.

“Cross my heart, hope to die.”


End file.
